


Stories Within the Seams

by duckiesinaline



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckiesinaline/pseuds/duckiesinaline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not always adrenaline spikes and too-close calls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories Within the Seams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wtb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtb/gifts).



> Set in Winzler's phenomenal Home / Reset universe.

There was a seam, just off-center, that ran a handspan beneath Tron's ribs. It was nearly invisible to the eye - just a pixel's mismatch in the texture mapping - but Sam could feel it. He could _taste_ it, a prickling discharge like the edge of a circuit, metallic heat just before the static snap.

"A black guard ... " Tron gasped, muscles twitching, " ... staff - "

Sam glanced up, arched a brow and let his disbelief be known with another long, slow drag of his tongue over the scar, and Tron squirmed. "Activated - burned like a high-amp short ... "

Sam snorted, but let his grin be felt against programmed skin as he rewarded Tron with the lightest drag of teeth across the pleat before allowing himself to be pulled up.

"This one," Tron murmured, lips against his jaw, fingers against his elbow, one knee between his and an ankle hooked close against his calf.

"Which one?" Sam smirked, tilting his head back obligingly, skimming his fingertips lightly along the side of Tron's ribcage as he sought out other imperfections on the perfectly coded body. "The skateboard incident or the snowboard half-pipe faceplant?"

Tron huffed, a warm puff of air against the pulse-point of his throat. "You are being intentionally difficult."

There it was. A jagged line, wrapping behind the program's torso just beneath the arm, a staircase rather than the vector-straight lines from before; a messier wound than the others. "Just stacking the deck."

Sam told him about the skateboard he had managed to only flip two-hundred-seventy degrees instead of the full three-sixty, messing up his ankle and leaving a five inch curve of puckered skin beneath his knee. Tron shuddered and arched beneath the palm he ran reverantly over the remnants of a gridbug's acidic touch. Sam divulged the wicked seven-twenty aerial stunt he had pulled on his snowboard - just before catching the half-pipe's lip and hitting the packed snow wall face-first. A whine caught in his throat when Tron wrapped his lips around the pale, polished skin just to the right of his chin and sucked gently, a hand smoothing lightly up the hollow of his spine.

They ran fingers and palms and lips over shoulders, arms, hands. Down the padded staircase of ribs, the lean lines of flanks, the tight, narrow cage of the pelvis. The hard swell of buttock, the limber stretch of thigh and calf ... mapped every inch of each other's bodies to find the marks that life and experience had left behind - 

Every inch but that which covered heart and core. The ragged tears of thoughtless metal and cold concrete. The surgical evisceration by equally cold calculation. The stitches and sutures over those were still fresh, hot and uncomfortable, an itch beneath the skin that had nothing to do with healing. Easily traced by sight alone, they purposely turned eyes and touch away; left the thick, staircase lines and gnarled knots alone, their stories already well known.

And so, when all other tales had been told, Sam finally set study aside to brush his hand through dark hair, to taste the essence of all the legends directly from Tron's mouth, let their fingers tangle and breaths mingle. He settled his weight against solid heat, sensed the hum of life and memories thrumming just beneath the surface, felt the care in the hand which settled upon the back of his neck, a thumb testing the texture of the shortest hairs at his nape.

He wondered if there was memory in the scars themselves, each malformed voxel trapping a byte of pain and anguish; wondered if the stories could be erased along with the lines. But a hand caught his before he was even aware that it had wandered, stopped just short of the thickest flaw that ran straight and sure down sternum and belly -

"Don't."

"I might be able to make it better - "

"You already do, Sam."


End file.
